There is something in the calm of a Sunday evening in summer which seems to cast a halo over the worshippers in a country church. The gradual decline of daylight, the perfume of flowers which pervades the building through open doors and casements, the slanting beams of the setting sun shining through the western windows, radiant in crimson and gold, and the joyous song of the birds chanting their evening hymn of praise, all combine to impress the spirit with a sense of the presence of God, not only among those who do not neglect the assembling of themselves together to worship and to praise Him, but also in His "glorious works."
On such an evening two days after the Friday which had been so fatal to Arthur Franklyn's schemes, Mr. Armstrong proposed to accompany his daughter to the old parish church at Kilburn, which was at that period merely a country village.
It was not often that Mr. Armstrong attended the evening service, therefore excepting during her brother's holidays Mary was obliged to remain at home also, for she could not go to church alone. Most readily therefore she hailed the opportunity offered by her father, and hastily arrayed herself in walking costume, a process by no means so troublesome to a lady in summer as in winter.
They had scarcely taken their usual places in their pew when the chimes ceased and the single five minutes bell began to toll.
Mr. Armstrong's pew was in the north gallery; therefore when the organ pealed forth its introductory music, and the clergymen issued from the vestry, Mary could see that one of them entered the reading desk and the other within the communion rails, seating himself on the north side and therefore hidden from their pew by the pulpit.
She paid but little attention to this circumstance, except to feel glad that the old rector would have help for this evening at least, the whole of the preceding Sunday services having been performed by him alone.
The fact of it being the first Sunday after Trinity suggested to Mary Armstrong no cause for Henry Halford's absence from the boys' pew at church. With all her cleverness in other subjects, she had very little knowledge of clerical matters. The prayers used in what is called Ember Week she had noticed and understood, but of their connexion with certain Sundays in the year, among others Trinity Sunday, she knew nothing.
Following the service as it proceeded with true devotional feeling, neither Mary Armstrong nor her father was prepared for the surprise that awaited them.
During the singing of the hymn, and while standing in the pew, she could see that as the rector left the reading desk to proceed to the vestry, he was joined by a stranger; but only his white surplice was visible, the vestry being on the same side as the gallery on which she stood, and the entrance under it.
Those were the days when clergymen changed the surplice for the black academical gown for preaching. Mary, quite engrossed with the music and the words of the last verse of the hymn, did not glance towards the pulpit till the preacher raised his head from his hands, and faced the congregation.
He was very pale, this strange young clergyman, and as he laid his Bible on the desk his hand trembled perceptibly.
He had seen at a glance as he entered the pulpit the figure in white standing by Mr. Armstrong in the gallery near him. The unexpected appearance at the evening service of any of the family took him by surprise, and it required all the self-control he possessed to bring himself to a proper frame of mind by the time the congregation were ready to listen to him.
But the effort was successful, and as the full-toned young voice gave out the text his natural power of concentration resumed its sway, the glorious subject before him absorbed all his thoughts, and the natural fluency with which Henry Halford expressed his ideas did not forsake him now.
He had determined, long before his ordination, that he would adopt extemporaneous preaching, and as the subject he had chosen fired the intellectual powers and Christian principles of the young clergyman, his hearers sat mute with surprise and admiration.
The sermon might have been styled an exposition of the thirteenth chapter of the First of Corinthians, for not one of the attributes of charity did he omit to notice; but his text contained only these words—"The greatest of these is charity."
For more than half an hour did the congregation sit in breathless attention to the sound reasoning, the clear explanations, and the bursts of eloquence which almost electrified them; and when they rose as he finished his sermon, there was not one who did not feel sorry it was over.
But we are forgetting our friends in the front pew of the gallery. When Mary Armstrong bowed her head in the short prayer before the sermon, she had not particularly noticed the face of the new curate, as she supposed him to be. The voice, at first low and indistinct, presently sounded familiar. Yes, she had heard it before, but where? It ceased, and as she rose from her knees and directed her attention to the preacher, she recognised in the pale young clergyman before her, Henry Halford! One glance at her father, and she saw by his returned glance, that he also knew the name of the stranger who now as the servant of God stood forth fearlessly as the instructor of the man who loved his money better than his child's happiness.
Mary in her startled surprise felt the colour forsaking cheek and lips, and a tendency to faint; but with a strong effort she roused herself. To be carried out of church fainting was an ordeal she dreaded, and therefore struggled against with all her strength.
More than once Mr. Armstrong looked at her anxiously, but she did not flinch. No; she would stay and brave it all.
The conduct of Henry Halford also tended to restore her self-possession, and before long she as well as her father became too deeply interested in the sermon and the subject to think much of their surprise at finding who was the preacher.
The attentive congregation, the summer evening associations to which reference has been made, all had an influence upon the young girl's mind, and for years after she never attended a summer evening service in a country church without recalling this evening at Kilburn.
But when they rose to leave the church, there was a dread at Mary's heart of what her father might say or suspect.
Mr. Armstrong, as we know, had a foolish prejudice about clergymen, and although he attended church for the sake of appearances, and respected the old rector because he could not help it, still he did not cultivate his acquaintance, nor indeed the acquaintance of any families in Kilburn, except the Drummonds and one or two others.
But for this exclusiveness he would have heard not only that the rector had parted with his late curate, but also that he had engaged another, and that other the son of his old friend Dr. Halford. More than this, had not the heat formed an excuse for Mr. Armstrong, and a reason for his wife to remain at home on that Sunday morning, they would have heard Henry Halford read the forms which are necessary at the introduction of a newly ordained curate, and also the prayers as his first clerical act.
"Did you know young Halford was going to preach this evening, Mary?" was her father's first question as they proceeded homewards.
"No, papa; I did not even know that Mr. Halford was ordained."
Mr. Armstrong said no more, although while he asked the question he suddenly remembered Cousin Sarah's information, and knew that Mary was too truthful for him to doubt her assertion for an instant. The remainder of the walk was continued in silence, both father and daughter busied with their own reflections.
"Cousin Sarah is right," said the money-loving father to himself; "there is great intellect, and a wonderful power of language and argument in that young schoolmaster, and he knows how to take up a text too, and interest his hearers. Once or twice in his definition of charity I fancied he was preachingatme, and in truth his arguments were very strong, although rather Utopian in theory. What would become of trade, and commerce, and money-getting in England or elsewhere, if we were to possess the 'charity that seeketh not her own, that thinketh no evil, or that suffereth long and is kind?' Where are the men of business who seek not their own? What would be thought of the tradesman who trusted those with whom he dealt without suspicion of evil? How would such conduct agree with the maxim, that 'every man is a rogue till you have proved him honest?' Where is the man, even with thousands at his banker's, who 'suffers long and is kind' to a debtor, before he punishes him with legal proceedings? And yet these are the words of the Bible, which we as Christians profess to believe. There must be something wrong at the root ofourChristianity, if it cannot carry out the precepts of its Founder." And then the memory of Edward Armstrong presented to him a real proof that the precepts he had that evening heard were not so directly opposed to the spirit and tenor of good business habits and conduct as he imagined. No example of the charity spoken of by St. Paul more truly existed with active business habits than in the character of his own father; and then by a common association of ideas he remembered that in a few weeks Mary would be of age, and entitled to receive the legacy of 1000l.left her by her grandfather. "Why, even that sum would help her and the young parson to marry in comfort," he reflected. "It would at least insure a partnership for him in his father's school, and I have made Mary domestic enough, even for a schoolmaster's wife; and after she is of age I shall have no right to interfere with her." Mr. Armstrong sighed as the approach to his own gates put a stop to these reflections, yet he could not help saying to himself, "It would be a terrible downfall to all my ambitious projects for my daughter; I do not think I can give my consent after all."
The reader will understand what must have been the influence of Henry Halford's first sermon, to produce such reflections in the mind of Edward Armstrong.
The secret thoughts of his daughter may be summed up in a few words.
"Will my father change his mind now he sees how very clever Henry Halford is?" said the young girl to herself, in the pride and joy of her heart at his evident success in securing the attention of his hearers. "Can he ever expect I could give him up, even for a duke with 50,000l.a year?"
And then as she followed her father in, and listened with surprise as he described what had occurred to her mother, and even praised the subject and style of the sermon, a new feeling of hope arose in her heart which flushed her cheek and brightened her eye for the rest of the evening. Mrs. Armstrong noticed the look of happiness on her daughter's face, and when she wished her good night she whispered—
"You must tell me all about the sermon to morrow, darling."
But there were others in a quiet pew under the gallery at church who were really more personally interested in the first efforts of the young clergyman than even our friends at Lime Grove.
Kate Marston, Clara, Mabel, and James Franklyn were delighted listeners to the sermon which had so roused Mr. Armstrong. But to the aged father of Henry Halford came the memory of his dear wife's words, when they had consulted on the means and advisability of educating him for the Church. "We may hope to live to see our son a useful minister in the church," had been the mother's words, and that privilege had been denied her. Mrs. Halford had gone to her rest, and the old man's first words when he reached home and shook his son's hand warmly were, "In the midst of my gratification, Henry, I have only one cause for regret, and that is that your mother did not live to see this day."
"Better perhaps as it is, father," he replied. "You would not wish my dear mother back, especially when such trouble has fallen upon Arthur."
"No, no; ah, I forgot, you are right, it is all for the best, 'He doeth all things well.'"
Kate Marston stood by with tears of joy in her eyes; a true daughter and sister was she in heart to the bereaved husband and only child of her dear aunt Clara.
They had scarcely seated themselves at the supper-table, when a ring at the front gate startled every one, and presently the housemaid appeared with a pale face, and beckoned Henry Halford from the room.
"Oh, please sir, it's a telegraph boy, and he's brought this and he's to wait for an answer."
Henry closed the dining-room door as she spoke, and took the missive in his hand, feeling almost as alarmed as herself.
It was still twilight out of doors, and the hall gas not being lit, Henry walked to the glass door entrance to read the telegram, dreading he scarcely knew what.
He gave one hasty glance at the words, and read—
"Dr. Gordon, Guy's Hospital, to Mr. Henry Halford, Englefield Grange."A gentleman, with the initials A. F. on his clothes, is here dangerously ill; has asked for you. Come at once."
"Dr. Gordon, Guy's Hospital, to Mr. Henry Halford, Englefield Grange.
"A gentleman, with the initials A. F. on his clothes, is here dangerously ill; has asked for you. Come at once."
In a kind of bewilderment he looked round the hall, and saw the boy who waited for the answer.
"There is no answer necessary, my boy," he said, "you need not wait."
Then as the telegraph messenger sallied out at the still open door, Henry Halford turned hastily to the housemaid:—
"Go in quietly and tell Miss Marston she is wanted, Rebecca."
The girl obeyed, and presently that lady appeared with a startled look on her face.
"What is it, Henry?" she asked anxiously.
"Something that must not be mentioned suddenly before my father or Arthur's children," he replied; "read that, Kate."
He placed the telegram in her hands, and lighted the gas that she might read it.
"Rebecca," he said, as the girl passed from the dining-room, "I can trust to you, not to say one word to alarm any of the young people until Miss Marston has given a reason for my absence. I am going to London to-night; Mr. Franklyn is ill."
"I wont say a word to any one, Mr. Henry, I promise you," she replied.
"What can have happened?" said Kate Marston when they were again alone.
"It is impossible to say," he replied, "but I must not delay a moment; break the news gently to my father and the children, while I put a few things together in a carpet bag."
"But, Henry, you have had no supper, and after such a day of excitement too; oh! I am very sorry, let me bring you a glass of wine."
"No, no," he said, going upstairs two steps at a time, "I can get something in London, but you may find Bradshaw if you will, Kate."
Henry Halford was back again to the hall ready for his departure almost as quickly as Kate with the time-table.
"You have plenty of time," she said, "there, is a train at 9.40, and if you miss that, another at 10.5."
"Oh, thank you; all right, I can easily catch the 9.40. Good-by, Kate, make the best of it till you hear from me."
And so ended at Kilburn the Sunday on which Henry Halford entered upon his duties as a clergyman.
While the train is speeding on with Henry Halford to the Euston Station, we will go back to the Friday afternoon when Arthur Franklyn was carried in an apparently lifeless state to Guy's.
When dragged from the water many voices were raised in eager haste. "Send for a doctor!" "Carry him to the hotel!" "No use, the man is dead!" "Nonsense, he hasn't been five minutes in the water." This and other confusing advice was, however, set aside by the appearance of two policemen with a cab. Putting back the crowd, they lifted in the apparently drowned man, and bidding the driver make haste, jumped in with him.
The rapid movement produced an unexpected effect. Before they were half over London Bridge the policeman who sat opposite to Arthur was startled at seeing the eyes of the supposed dead man open suddenly, and after a heavily drawn breath came the words, "My carpet bag! where is my carpet bag?" The wild eyes, the unexpected recovery, and the firmly uttered words took these officers of the law by surprise.
"All right, sir, don't you go worritting yourself about carpet bags; yours is all safe, I daresay," was all one of them could reply in a soothing tone before the cab stopped at the hospital entrance, to the great satisfaction of Arthur Franklyn's companions.
The medical officers were quickly in attendance, but the shock of the accident had so increased the feverish excitement of Arthur Franklyn, that on being taken out of the cab he struggled with those who held him, and exclaimed frantically, "I must go back! You shall not detain me! Where is my carpet bag?"
Regardless of his almost frenzied manner, which they judged to arise from incipient disease, the attendants quickly relieved Arthur of his wet clothes; he was placed in bed, and the remedies against the consequences of a cold bath while in such a heated state vigorously applied.
But there were other causes at work in that excited brain at present unknown to the hospital doctors, and before night the patient was tossing from side to side of the bed in the alternate delirium and stupor which attends brain fever. His clothes were eagerly searched to find a letter or address which might give some clue to his friends, for he was evidently a gentleman, but with no success.
Arthur's great anxiety to conceal his name and his movements, now bid fair to elude all attempts to discover his relations. He had booked himself for the voyage under a false name, and the initials A. F. on his linen were of very little use.
In the midst of his delirium his words were so incoherent that none could be distinguished but the constant cry for the "carpet bag." At last, during the afternoon of Sunday, although still insensible to surrounding objects, his muttered words became more distinct.
Dr. Gordon was standing by his side listening anxiously to the wandering expressions of the patient, when Arthur Franklyn half-rose in the bed and exclaimed, "I must go to Kilburn! Ah! Henry Halford, what have I done! And you will tell Fanny." He sunk back exhausted as he uttered these words in a low piteous tone.
But this was enough for Dr. Gordon. He went to the county directory and quickly finding the name of Halford and Englefeld Grange, sent the telegram at once.
"I have telegraphed to the gentleman named by the patient," he said to the nurse; "he cannot be here before ten at the earliest, I will return by that time."
It was within an hour after receiving the message that the cab taken by Henry Halford at Euston Square reached London Bridge and drove to Guy's Hospital.
He was admitted at once to the presence of Dr. Gordon, who received the gentleman, whose clerical dress denoted his office, with great cordiality.
"I presume this gentleman is my brother-in-law," was the young clergyman's first remark, "by the initials A. F.; if so, his name is Arthur Franklyn: is he too ill to recognise me?"
"I fear so; he has been delirious ever since he was brought here, and until to-day he has not uttered a name with sufficient distinctness to be understood."
"What is the nature of his complaint?" asked Henry.
"Brain fever," replied the doctor; "and we have been obliged to have his head shaved, so that perhaps you may find a great difficulty in recognising him."
"We have almost feared he would have some attack of this kind," said Henry; "he has had a great amount of excitement during the last fortnight, since the sudden death of his wife in a railway carriage."
"What!" exclaimed Dr. Gordon, "are you referring to the case of Mrs. Franklyn? Of course, yes, that was the name. I read an account of it in the papers, and indeed such a painful occurrence was almost sufficient of itself to produce irritation of the brain, if this gentleman is Mr. Franklyn."
"I have no doubt of it, doctor; but my brother-in-law had apartments in London at the West End—how came he here?"
"I cannot ascertain the correct facts, but it appears that our patient was crossing a plank to go on board a steamer lying in the Thames at London Bridge, and fell into the river. He was recovered from the water quickly and brought to the hospital; a few minutes longer would have proved fatal to him. I have no doubt he lost his balance from giddiness, for this brain fever had been coming on for days."
"I suppose we cannot remove Mr. Franklyn yet?" said Henry.
"Remove him! my dear sir, no; impossible, till we can ascertain what turn the disorder takes; but you shall see him and judge for yourself."
Henry Halford followed the surgeon up the stairs in silence. He had never before entered an hospital, and through the open doors of the different wards as he passed, he caught glimpses of sufferers in the various stages and forms of disease, which reminded him of Milton's lines—
Dire was the tossing, deep the groans; despairTended the sick, busied from couch to couch;And over them triumphant death his dartShook, but delayed to strike.
Dire was the tossing, deep the groans; despairTended the sick, busied from couch to couch;And over them triumphant death his dartShook, but delayed to strike.
Yet the cleanliness and calm of the place made him thank God in his heart for these noble institutions, where the suffering poor can obtain every comfort and care in times of sickness, as well as the most skilful medical advice. On a bed separated by a screen from the other patients lay Arthur Franklyn, but so changed in appearance that for a moment Henry Halford could scarcely recognise him.
The stricken man who lay tossing to and fro on the bed had nothing to remind us of Arthur Franklyn but his features, and even these were drawn and distorted. The shaven head, on which lay cloths steeped in vinegar; the flushed and heated face; the wild, dilated eyes, from which mind and soul had departed, leaving a blank look which seemed to mock their brilliance—all presented to the pitying eyes of the young clergyman a sight never to be forgotten.
"Itismy brother-in-law, Dr. Gordon," he said at last; "but what a wreck of himself! He does not appear to know me in the least."
"Try what your voice can do," replied the doctor; "speak to him, Mr. Halford."
"Arthur! Arthur Franklyn!" he exclaimed, bending over the patient, "do you know me?"
The eyes turned towards him with a vacant look, but no recognition; and presently the muttering of delirium again commenced, in which Henry could now and then distinguish his own name and his sister's, as well as those of his children and his second wife.
"Is there any hope of his recovery, Dr. Gordon?" said Henry, almost in tears. "He has four motherless children."
"Well, I cannot deny that there is hope," he said; "for Mr. Franklyn has a good constitution, and may perhaps battle with the disease, but his recovery will be followed by a period of painful exhaustion. There is evidently something on his mind in addition to the excitement caused by the death of Mrs. Franklyn. He seems also to be in great trouble about the loss of his carpet bag, which fell with him into the water, but has not yet been recovered."
Dr. Gordon had spoken in a low tone, yet the ear of the sufferer caught the word. He started up in bed.
"Where is Henry? Tell him to find the carpet bag. I'll tell him what is in it. They cannot touch me; there's nothing they can prove. Ah, let me go for it. I must save my children!" and he attempted to get out of bed, but fell back, too much exhausted to resist the doctor in his firm efforts to prevent him.
"I can do no good by staying here, doctor," said Henry, after a pause; "but if you will kindly describe the spot where the accident took place, I can make inquiries about the carpet bag to-morrow. In the meantime, as Mr. Franklyn cannot be moved, I am sure we may leave him safely here, and pay whatever expenses are incurred for him while in the hospital."
"If his friends wish to do so, it can be easily arranged," said Dr. Gordon, as he and Henry descended the stairs; "and you may depend upon having a telegram from me should a change for the worse take place."
The two gentlemen parted at the door of the hospital, the one to wend his way homeward after his arduous duties, and the other to find himself in the streets of London on a Sunday night within half an hour of midnight.
He had left his own carpet bag at an hotel near Guy's, and here, after a day of excitement and fatigue, he was at last able to take some slight refreshment. Although almost without appetite he felt it as a duty he owed himself to try to eat a little.
"I must telegraph home and to the rectory in the morning," he said to himself as he sought this pillow; "if I stay in London till to-morrow I may perhaps hear something of this carpet bag which appears to disturb poor Arthur's mind so terribly."
Early next morning Henry was down at the wharf described by Dr. Gordon, and, without acknowledging his relationship, questioned those on the spot about the gentleman who had fallen into the water on the previous Friday.
Full particulars were soon obtained of the accident, and then his informant remarked—
"I suppose you see'd an account of the haccident in the papers, master?"
"No," he replied, almost with a start; "what paper is it in?"
"Oh, pretty nigh all on 'em, for you see we thought for sure the gentleman were dead; but he frightened the two bobbies that went with him in the cab above a bit by jumping up and crying out about his carpet bag. I suppose there was some valuables in that 'ere bag, but the Thames searchers have been a-looking for it ever since, and they ain't seen nothing on it yet."
Henry gave the man a gratuity, which made him touch the brim of his hat in token of approval.
Henry turned again as he moved to go—"Do you know the men who are searchers of the Thames?" he asked.
"Yes, sir, I knows 'em well."
"Tell them, then, that if they find this bag, and will send it to the Terminus Hotel, London Bridge, I will take care they are paid well for their trouble."
"I'll tell 'em, sir, all right," said the man.
Henry Halford returned to the hotel, and made an arrangement with the waiter respecting the missing bag.
"You can telegraph to me when it arrives," said Henry; "and if the men refuse to leave it, tell them to bring it again in a few hours and wait for me. Here is my card and address. You will be sure to attend to this, for it is very important."
"You may depend upon me, sir," said the man.
And then Henry turned his steps once more to Guy's Hospital.
Dr. Gordon was absent, but the house surgeon sent for Mr. Halford to his private room.
"I do not consider Mr. Franklyn worse or better," he said, in answer to Henry's inquiries. "He is quieter to-day, but with no lucid intervals. I think, however, that the disease is working itself out, and there is nothing for us but patience. Will you see him?"
"No, thank you, I think not to-day; but you will let me know when a change takes place?"
"Without fail, Mr. Halford, you may depend upon that."
The gentlemen parted cordially, and Henry, calling a cab, was driven to the Euston Station, almost dreading the return home, where he should appear as the bearer of such painful tidings.
While in the train Henry Halford reflected anxiously on what could be deposited in this carpet bag to cause his brother-in-law such painful anxiety. He had also not been able to discover to what steamer he was proceeding when attempting to cross the plank. All he could ascertain from the men about the wharf was that two or three steamers were moored alongside each other, one of them being a large Melbourne packet.
"Arthur could not have intended to leave England, or his children," said Henry to himself, "without informing us of his intentions, or taking leave of them."
This idea seemed so utterly improbable that Henry dismissed it from his mind as absurd.
"I will say nothing to excite suspicion at home," he thought. "There is real trouble enough in his illness without adding to it by conjecture of evil. We must wait patiently, and hope and pray for the poor fellow's recovery."
Henry Halford did not know that Arthur's boxes had been carried on shore from the Melbourne packet at Gravesend because the passenger whose name they bore was not on board when the ship arrived there. But the name on these boxes was not Franklyn.
Henry's appearance at Englefield Grange was hailed with trembling anxiety.
"Oh, uncle Henry," exclaimed Clara, with pale lips, "how is dear papa? We know all about the accident—it's in theTimes."
"Stay, Clara dear," said Kate Marston; "your uncle looks tired and anxious. Only tell us one thing, Henry: have you seen Arthur, and is he still living?"
"Yes, Kate; he is in Guy's Hospital, and receiving every attention and kindness, but he is indeed most seriously ill. Don't grieve, my dear Clara," he continued, putting his arm round his niece as she burst into tears at his words, and leading her into the little breakfast parlour; "for grandpapa's sake, and your sister and brothers, keep up a brave spirit. Your dear father is in God's hands, and we must pray and hope."
Clara dried her tears and listened with painful interest to her uncle Henry's description of her poor father's accident, and the illness from which he now suffered.
But her uncle's words had aroused her usual calm self-possession, and she determined to subdue her own sorrow for the sake of those whom she loved so well.
Henry Halford, during the first few days of this sad week, was making himself acquainted with his duties as a curate, and while thus engaged, or busy in the schoolroom, he could banish from his mind the vague suspicions about Arthur which still troubled him when unemployed.
He was mourning over the impossibility of obtaining time to visit the hospital more frequently, when he was one morning surprised soon after breakfast by the appearance of Mr. Drummond and a gentleman whom he introduced as his nephew, George Longford.
On entering the drawing-room, Mr. Drummond came forward with eager sympathy, and taking Henry's offered hand, he exclaimed—
"My dear Henry, I am indeed grieved to hear of these overwhelming troubles which have fallen upon your family in such quick succession, and I and my nephew are come to offer our services if agreeable."
"Pray be seated," said Henry, placing chairs for his visitors.
"Thank you, no; we have only a few moments to stay, and our business is soon told. My nephew George, who is staying with us for a short time, is walking the hospitals. He will be at Guy's every day, and will gladly bring you news—good news, I hope—respecting Mr. Franklyn on his return each evening to my house."
"It is indeed a very kind proposal," said Henry, "I shall be most grateful, for we have my brother-in-law's four children here, and the elder ones are of course very anxious about their father. Unfortunately, it is my first initiation into parish work this week, and as we are within a fortnight of the midsummer vacation my presence is required in the schoolroom almost constantly, and I cannot visit the hospital as often as I could wish."
"I had some idea of all these difficulties," said Mr. Drummond, "but my nephew's reports will relieve you of this anxiety, so make yourself easy on the matter."
"You may depend upon me," said George Longford, as the gentlemen hurried away after shaking hands warmly; "you shall have the latest information every evening. I will call here on my way home."
Henry Halford parted from the gentlemen with cordial and earnest thanks. It would be a great mental relief to him as well as to Kate Marston to receive daily information respecting Arthur. They already began to feel the responsibility which the care of Arthur's children involved, not so much on account of the additional expense, but from their motherless condition.
"I do hope poor Arthur wont die and leave these poor children fatherless as well as motherless," said Kate Marston on the day Mr. Drummond had called, "but I suppose there will be plenty of money to support them in case of such a sad event."
"No matter if there is not, Kate; my father would never forsake dear Fanny's children. Neither would I, even if they were left penniless."
"I know that well," she replied, her eyes filling with tears. "Uncle has been a second father to me for half my life—since I was left an orphan."
"We must not anticipate evil, Kate," said her cousin. "I hope all will end well with poor Arthur, although it would grieve you painfully to see how he is changed. But where is theTimes? I have not read the paragraph Clara spoke of yesterday."
Kate fetched the paper, and pointing to the paragraph, placed it in his hands.
Henry took it nervously. The mystery of the carpet bag still haunted him, and seemed ominous of evil. He glanced hurriedly over the account, which ran as follows:—
"Dangerous Accident.—On Friday afternoon a gentleman, in attempting to cross a plank from the shore near London Bridge to reach a distant steamer, lost his footing and fell into the water. With great difficulty he was brought to land by the activity and energy of those around him. He was immediately taken in a cab to Guy's Hospital, but recovering animation before he reached there, he showed by evident signs that he must have been under the influence of incipient brain fever, for he called frantically for his carpet bag, which had fallen with him into the river. He is now lying in a very precarious state at the hospital. We understand from good authority that the gentleman who has had such a narrow escape from drowning is Mr. Arthur Franklyn, whose wife died suddenly in a railway carriage a few weeks since. His present state, and the accident that preceded it, may therefore be easily accounted for under such painful circumstances."
"It is no more than I expected," said Kate, as her cousin threw down the paper. "Arthur has looked dreadfully ill since poor Louisa's death. Do you know, Henry, I fear he has no claim on her property after all."
"What makes you think so?" asked Henry, in surprise.
"Oh, the remark he made to me on the day he started for London after you left. I understood him to say that he had taken no steps to ascertain his position with regard to his wife's property before his marriage."
"I had some suspicions that such was the case," replied Henry, "when he asked me to recommend him a lawyer; and I believe he had been with Mrs. Franklyn to call on Mr. Norton for the purpose of arranging for him to witness certain signatures on the day of her sudden death. It certainly will be a disappointment to Arthur if his second wife's property is all lost to him; but from his own account of his position and means I do not suppose he will feel it much—at all events we must hope so."
Kate made no reply. She had seen more of Arthur Franklyn during his visit than her cousin, and she could not get rid of the idea that a great deal of the uneasy and perturbed state of mind so evident in his manner and appearance was caused by anxiety about money.
George Longford, according to his promise, brought to Englefield Grange daily accounts of Arthur Franklyn's state—at times alarming, at others hopeful.
More than once Henry visited the hospital to obtain personally the opinion of the surgeons, yet nearly a week passed before his brother-in-law was able in a lucid interval to recognise him.
But this recognition was attended with painful results. For a few minutes the sick man spoke calmly to Henry, and listened to his kind and hopeful words. Suddenly, as if stung by some painful recollection, he exclaimed—
"Go, go; you are come to reproach me! O Fanny, Fanny, what have I done! My children, my children! Don't revenge yourself on them, Henry, by letting them starve!"
Poor Henry was hurried away, and returned home agonised by the thought, not only that his presence at the hospital might have hastened his brother-in-law's death, but also by the terrible fear which his words had suggested. What, oh! what had poor Arthur done?
Nothing now remained but patience and hope, yet as week after week passed by all hope seemed to die in the hearts of his children and the loving friends in whose care they were placed.
Not till the second week in July could Arthur Franklyn be pronounced out of danger; and in this hopeful condition we will leave him, to return to our friends at Kilburn.
Mrs. Armstrong had seen very little of her eldest sister for years, nor of Mrs. Herbert since Mary's visit to Park Lane. Sir James Elstone, the old admiral, still resided with his wife in the south of France. He was, as we know from Mrs. Lake's information to Edward Armstrong before his marriage, more than thirty years older than Louisa St. Clair, and was now eighty years of age. Louisa, although she bore the title of Lady Elstone, performed the office of a kind and faithful nurse to her aged husband, who was fast sinking into the grave.
Her sister Helen, Mrs. Herbert, possessed the good health and sunny temper which made her society always welcome at the homes of her two sisters. Maria had a family to care for, and she was naturally a home bird; and besides, she had a sweet companion and comforter in her daughter Mary.
Mrs. Herbert, while her son was away, had no home ties, and the colonel, who had spent more than half his life in India, preferred the beautiful climate of the Mediterranean to the fogs and uncertain weather of England. All these facts were turned into arguments in favour of her request by Lady Elstone when she wrote and asked her sister Helen and the colonel to join them at theirchâteauon the shores of the Mediterranean. This invitation arrived soon after Mary's visit to Park Lane, and a year had elapsed since Mrs. Armstrong had seen her sister Helen, who, however, kept up a constant correspondence with Mary.
On the Tuesday morning, at the time when Kate Franklyn placed Monday'sTimesin the hands of her cousin, Henry Halford, Mary sat reading to her mother a letter of many pages from her favourite aunt. She had already on the previous day read and commented upon the paragraph referred to with earnest sympathy. Not even her mother could guess the longing in her daughter's heart to be able to show that sympathy to the children of the suffering father, and the nieces and nephews of Henry Halford. But another subject occupied her now. Charles Herbert's regiment was on its way to England from Canada, and Mrs. Herbert in her letter stated that they hoped to be in Park Lane to receive their son before the end of July, and that Mrs. Armstrong and her daughter were to expect a very speedy visit to Lime Grove after their arrival.
"We were sorry to leave poor Aunt Louisa just at this time," wrote Mrs. Herbert, "for the old admiral cannot last long. However, your uncle has promised to go to her at a moment's notice, for at her husband's death there will be too much for a woman to manage, especially with lawyers."
All Mary's pity for her aunt Louisa could not serve to control her pleasure at the prospect of seeing her aunt and uncle and cousin Charles.
"O mamma!" she said, as she refolded the crinkly sheets of foreign paper, "is not this delightful news—at least all excepting that about poor Aunt and Uncle Elstone? but Aunt Louisa is a much greater stranger to me than Aunt Helen, she has lived abroad so long with uncle. But I shall count the days till Aunt Helen comes; are you not pleased, mamma?"
"Indeed I am," said Mrs. Armstrong; "but, Mary, if you are invited again to Park Lane, are you prepared to accept the invitation?"
"Not for longer than a day or two, mamma, and I don't think Aunt Helen will ask me; she was too much annoyed about the consequences of my visit last year; you remember what she said about it."
"Yes, Mary; but, my child, you will be one-and-twenty next month; have you made up your mind to remain single all your life?"
"Yes, mamma," said Mary, with a merry laugh; "Imean to be a useful old maid, attending to my dear mother, and that 'blessing to mothers,' a kind maiden aunt to the children of my brothers when they are married——"
"Unless——" said Mrs. Armstrong, with a smile.
"Unless what, mamma? An impossibility?"
"What is impossible, Mary?"
"Why, for papa to change his mind. After he has once made a resolve he adheres to it, even when he has been convinced that he is in error."
"He considers that adherence to his resolve is a manly firmness of purpose," said her mother.
"Well, mamma, this firmness of purpose puzzles me sometimes, for a great writer has said that the man who changes an erroneous opinion after being convinced that it is wrong proves that he is wiser when he changes it than he was when he formed it."
"A little bit of philosophy, Mary," said her mother, smiling; "and so I suppose you consider theunlessan impossibility?"
"Indeed I do, mamma, so we will not talk about it;" and rising hastily as if to strengthen her determination, she seated herself at the piano, and commenced practising a somewhat difficult sonato of Beethoven's.
The weeks passed away, and the morning of the 15th of July dawned in summer glory, giving a promise that for once St. Swithin would be propitious. There was a strange sense of happiness in Mary's heart as she entered the dining-room, and looked out upon the distant hills of Highgate and Harrow, which appeared almost transparent beneath the purple haze that rested upon them.
The source of Mary's happiness was a slight one, it is true, but it augured better things, and was therefore tinted with the rainbow hues of hope. She had driven her puny carriage to the station the evening before to meet her father, who, having encountered Mr. Drummond on the platform, invited him to take a seat in the carriage as far as the Limes.
The offer was accepted, and Mr. Drummond, quite unaware that he was touching on dangerous ground, remarked, as soon as the carriage started—
"What a narrow escape from death that young man, Arthur Franklyn, has had! but he is so much better to-day, that they are going to remove him to the Isle of Wight on Tuesday or Wednesday. I am heartily glad of it, for the sake of those poor motherless children."
"Yes, indeed, it would be a great burden and expense to their grandfather to have to provide for four children, which I suppose he can ill afford."
"I don't know that, Armstrong, even if their father was not in a position to make provision for their maintenance. Of course it would add to his expenses, but not beyond his means. What made you think otherwise?"
"Oh!" replied Mr. Armstrong, who already began to regret having offered his friend a lift, "well, schoolmasters are always poor as a rule, and in some cases half-educated; but," he continued hastily, "Dr. Halford is certainly an exception to the latter assumption."
"Schoolmasters in provincial towns and villages are not as a rule men of education; it was especially so when we were boys," said Mr. Drummond, firing a shot at a venture, which made Mr. Armstrong wince; "but my friend Dr. Halford is also an exception to your first assertion. Why, he gave his daughter 1000l.on her wedding-day, and I know it has cost him nearly another thousand to educate his son for the Church."
"Was not that a waste of money, if he intended him to be a schoolmaster as he now is?"
"No, certainly not; with a university education, a man who has been accustomed from his boyhood to teaching and school routine is beyond all others most suitable to conduct a school. And besides," continued Mr. Drummond, "what are the head masters of Eton and Harrow, or Rugby, but schoolmasters and gentlemen? and how often have the masters of these schools been chosen for the office of bishop! and some eventually have attained to the position of Archbishop of Canterbury."
"Well, I confess," said Mr. Armstrong, "I have been too much engrossed in business matters to acquire a knowledge of these particulars, and perhaps I have gained my ideas from my experience in youth, and from the general opinion of business men. The idea that a schoolmaster could give his daughter 1000l.on her wedding-day would have appeared to me years ago an impossibility."
"There are hundreds of educated clever men who are as successful as Dr. Halford," replied Mr. Drummond, "and he only began with a small capital, left him at his father's death, and with the recommendation of the late Lord Rivers, father of his pupil, the present earl. He has good but not exorbitant terms, his boys are all of the better class, the family live in a comfortable but not extravagant style, and I know that the doctor's income, not net of course, has averaged from two to three thousand a year for many years."
They were drawing near Lime Grove as Mr. Drummond spoke, and for a few moments silence ensued, then he remarked suddenly—
"Setting aside the subject of schoolmasters, Armstrong, what do you think of our new curate?"
In spite of the firmness with which Mary had restrained the inclination to glance at her father, who sat by her side during this conversation, she could not resist doing so now.
The movement of the head was, however, unnoticed by her father, who, with all his foolish prejudices and stubborn will, had a keen sense of justice.
His answer came, spontaneous and candid—
"I consider Mr. Henry Halford a clever, intellectual, and gentlemanly young man, and one of the finest preachers and readers I ever heard in my life."
"Well done, Armstrong, that is a testimony worth having, for you are a good judge, and so are the people of Kilburn, for the old church is filling tremendously; and now we are at your house. Thank you very much for this lift on the road."
"Let Mary drive you home, Drummond," said her father as the gentleman alighted, "or Rowland can do so if you like," for Mary's old protector in childish rides is still Mr. Armstrong's groom.
But Mr. Drummond refused. "No, no," he said, "I shall like the walk home, thank you, Miss Armstrong, all the same," for Mary sat still holding the reins, waiting for his decision.
He assisted her to alight as he spoke, and then after a pleasant farewell Mr. Drummond turned towards home, and father and daughter entered the house.
Mary went upstairs to her room to prepare for dinner, with sunshine at her heart. It had been pleasant to hear Mr. Drummond combat her father's opinions with so much energy, but what was that compared to his evidently truthful testimony respecting Henry Halford?
How every word of that praise was echoed in her own heart! more especially because she knew that her father would not have uttered such an opinion in her presence had he not truly felt what he said.
She had described the conversation and its delightful termination to her mother, who smiled, but said nothing either to damp her joy or encourage her hopes.
But the wordunless, and the remarks it occasioned, arose from what had passed between Mr. Drummond and her father on the preceding evening.
On the morning of the day on which her uncle, aunt, and Cousin Herbert were expected, we left Mary standing at the window of the dining-room and looking out on the summer landscape, while waiting for the urn to make the tea and prepare breakfast as usual.
During this meal the conversation naturally turned on their expected visitors, who had promised to remain till Monday or Tuesday.
"They called at Dover Street yesterday," said Mr. Armstrong, "to give notice of their arrival, and to tell me not to expect them to-day till about four o'clock. They will drive down in the open carriage, for Helen says she means to explore the country with you, Maria; and the horses can travel farther than Mary's ponies."
"Aunt Helen does not know the capabilities of my ponies," said Mary, laughing, "and three days will not give us time enough to do much. Poor old Boosey, he is quite discarded now; but he does not appear in the least jealous because the other horses work and he is allowed to be idle."
"Very likely not," said Mr. Armstrong, laughing; "but he must expect to work all the harder when the boys come home."
Mr. Armstrong rose at the sound of his horse's feet at the gate. He still at times rode Firefly to town; he could not part with the horse on which he had accompanied his daughter so often in her evening rides, although the railway, when Mary drove him to the station, was a great convenience.
Mary's lively remarks about her ponies had produced a twinge of conscience in her father; her manner reminded him of olden times, before he had crushed her girlish hopes by refusing a young man of whom he knew nothing, and without any inquiries as to his family and position, also while under the influence of prejudices which Mr. Drummond had flung to the winds.
These foolish prejudices had induced Mr. Armstrong to place his two elder boys at a public school, and Freddy with a lady who took little boys under ten. But Mr. Drummond's remarks had proved that there existed private schools, with masters equally clever and gentlemanly. He knew also that the bright looks and cheerful tones of his daughter arose from his clearly expressed opinion of Henry Halford the evening before.
"I am afraid I shall have to give way at last," he said to himself as he rode slowly along the Kilburn Road; "but it will defeat all my schemes for my daughter's future. What a splendid match such a girl as she is might have made but for this unfortunate acquaintance with the son of a schoolmaster! However, the Herberts are coming by-and-by. I must get Helen to talk to Mary. Mrs. Herbert's mother was proud and ambitious enough about her daughters, and had I not had money"—and he paused as a memory arose, and then added, "and the love and gratitude of Maria St. Clair, I should have had but a poor chance."
Such reflections as these always aroused conscience in Mr. Armstrong's heart. He loosened Firefly's bridle, and the spirited though well-trained animal started off at a trot towards town, scattering his rider's painful thoughts with every movement.
But Mr. Armstrong's hopes of gaining allies in his wife's relations were very quickly crushed.
When he returned home he found the colonel and his wife seated in the drawing-room with Mrs. Armstrong, and Mary walking round the garden with her cousin.
"Come and show me the garden, Mary," had been the request of the captain after she had laughingly joked him on his large black whiskers and generally fierce appearance, and she had readily complied with his wish.
"So you are not married yet, Mary," were his first words, as they stood for a moment on the steps leading into the garden to admire the prospect; "why, I heard such accounts from my mother of your conquests and splendid offers, that I almost expected to find my pretty cousin a duchess or at least a countess."
"Oh, don't joke about these things, cousin Charles," she replied, with a flush on her face and a quivering lip, "you cannot think what pain it gave me to refuse these gentlemen who so kindly preferred me to others, but I could not have married any of them."
Charles Herbert observed the flush and the trembling lip, and for a short distance they walked on in silence. "There is something hidden under all this," he said to himself; "my mother wont tell me anything, but I mean to find out."
They continued their walk, now and then pausing to notice the beautiful flowers that bordered their path. Mary, who had quickly recovered herself, soon convinced her cousin that she knew more of botany than he did.
They turned into a pleasant walk bordered with shrubs and overshadowed with trees, and reached the shrubbery.
"Mary," said her cousin suddenly, "tell me the truth; I have a reason for asking; is Henry Halford at the bottom of all this indifference to wealth and position and that sort of thing?"
Mary's eyes filled with tears; the presence of her cousin Charles had recalled to her memory the happy week at Oxford, and the reminiscences thus aroused were more than she could bear unmoved. She turned very pale, but she had no wish to disguise the truth from her cousin, the playmate of her childhood; and she said—
"I will tell you the truth, Charles. Henry Halford wrote to papa, but I never saw the letter. Papa wrote a refusal without asking me, and I knew nothing of these letters till nearly a year afterwards."
"Who told you then?"
"Poor Mrs. Halford. She became paralysed and weak-minded after the death of her daughter, and used to be drawn about in an invalid-chair. One day when I was walking with mamma we met her, and then in some way she slipped it out. It was the very day that Captain Fraser called upon papa and asked him for me."
"And was this the real cause of your refusing Captain Fraser?"
"I could never have married him, Charlie," she said. "You know what he is; nor could I if he had been worth 50,000l.a year instead of twelve; so I should have refused him at all events; but hearing about Henry Halford's letter made me more decided. Oh, Charles, don't remind me of that time; I never saw papa so angry in my life, but I kept firm."
"And this Mr. Halford—do you think he is still attached to you?"
"I don't know; don't ask any more questions, Charlie. I'm sure I've told you quite enough." And Mary spoke with her usual vivacity: she had dried her tears and decked her face with smiles, but her cousin had touched upon too tender a string to be made the subject of cousinly conversation.
The sound of the dinner-bell happened opportunely at this moment, and Charles entered the dining-room with his cousin on his arm, to receive a warm welcome from the uncle who had once saved him from a watery grave.
The conversation at dinner turned upon Mrs. Herbert's recollections of her pleasant stay at Lady Elstone's on the shores of the Mediterranean, but she very quickly gave place to her son. Her recent visit to the Château de Lisle was not her first, but Charlie's description of Canada and its inhabitants had all the freshness of novelty, and was listened to with great interest.
During dessert, however, as they sat trifling with the summer fruit, and enjoying the sweet evening breeze that fluttered the muslin window curtains, Charles made his first plunge.
After what Mary had told him he had braced his nerves to expect an outburst of anger from his irascible uncle, but he knew Mary too well to fear a scene on her part.
"So my friend Henry Halford is ordained, I hear," were the words that covered Mary's face with blushes, and threw a silence on every one present except Mr. Armstrong, who said with a flushed face and a look of contempt—
"Yourfriend, Charles? Ah, yes, I remember, I have been told you had that honour."
"It has not been a constant or intimate friendship," he replied; "but I was a fellow-pupil with him at Dr. Mason's for two years while he was preparing for the university. I did not at first recognise him when we met at Oxford, but as the intimate associate of Horace Wilton I consider the friendship of such a man as Henry Halford a very high honour."
There was a pause, during which Mrs. Armstrong would have given the signal for leaving the table, but she wished to hear what Charles had to say, and she did not fear an outbreak on the part of her husband in such company.
"I have heard Charles speak of this young man while with Dr. Mason," said the colonel; "he was then a youth of remarkable powers and intellectual tastes; his relations are neighbours of yours, Armstrong?"
"Yes; father and son are schoolmasters," was the curt reply.
Edward Armstrong, finding all his preconceived notions and objections slipping from under his feet, began to feel slightly irritable.
Mrs. Armstrong saw it, and gave the signal, of which her sister and Mary very gladly availed themselves, leaving the three gentlemen alone.
"There is nothing detrimental in a man of education filling the place of a schoolmaster," remarked the colonel, taking up the subject again after the ladies had left; "besides, this young man is now a clergyman, and admissible to the highest circles in the kingdom."
"I've heard all that over and over again lately," replied Mr. Armstrong, quietly; the presence of his daughter had been the chief cause of his rising irritation. It appeared to him as if every one was endeavouring to counteract in her mind the mean opinion which he wished her to form of the man whom she placed in the way of her most brilliant offers.
"The truth is, colonel," he continued, "I cannot deny the talents and other estimable qualities of this young parson; he is good-looking, gentlemanly, and a preacher of remarkable powers, but I cannot forgive him for aspiring to the hand of my daughter, and preventing her from marrying into a position which her talents, her education, and her personal attractions would obtain for her, independently of the 15,000l.or 20,000l.I could give her as a marriage portion."
"Well, if the young people like each other I'm very sorry for them, that's all I can say; however, you know your own affairs best, Armstrong, so we've nothing to object to on the matter."
This acquiescence on the part of the straightforward old soldier did more to shake Mr. Armstrong's stubborn will than a large amount of opposition. The responsibility of securing his daughter's happiness or misery for life rested now on his own shoulders, and he shrunk from its weight; therefore when Charles ventured to say—
"I suppose, uncle, you wont object to my going to church to-morrow to hear my friend preach?"
"Of course not, my boy," was the reply, in a kind tone; "we attend the parish church regularly, where Mr. Halford is curate."
"Not a very wise plan, I should imagine," said the colonel, "to allow a young girl to sit and listen to the eloquence of the man you wish her to despise and forsake, and to know also that crowds of hearers are brought to church to listen with breathless attention to the words of one who, because he is not rich, is to be set aside for those that are, however inferior in intellect or appearance."
"I am inclined to think Mary has got over all her lovesick nonsense about this young man. I'm her father, and she has from a child been accustomed to give up her own wishes to mine; she has done so now, and therefore I have no hesitation in allowing her to attend the church, more especially as I know her religious feelings will enable her to forget the reader and preacher in his subject."
The colonel changed the topic of conversation; these fallacious arguments of the self-willed, prejudiced man irritated him, and after a short time a summons to coffee took them into the drawing-room.
Next day at church, after the morning service, Charles Herbert renewed his friendship with Henry Halford, the colonel and Mrs. Herbert also warmly recalling the pleasant visit at Oxford, and expressing their pleasure at meeting him again.
Mr. Armstrong and Mary drew back after the distant bow which now formed their only recognition of Dr. Halford and his family, but Henry was only too glad to introduce his venerable father and his sister's children to his friend Charles Herbert and his parents.
Mr. Armstrong led his daughter forward till they were joined by the colonel and his wife.
"Charles is walking home with his friend," said Mrs. Herbert; "what a clever young man Mr. Halford is! I observed that he preaches extemporaneously."
"There is no doubt of his cleverness," said Mr. Armstrong; and then they discussed the subject and manner of the discourse, as members of a congregation often do, without thinking of its application to themselves.
Charles Herbert accompanied the family of Dr. Halford to Englefield Grange, and while talking to Henry about old days could not avoid a glance now and then at the tall, handsome, self-possessed girl who walked by her uncle's side.
Henry pressed him to remain to an early dinner, but he excused himself on account of being a visitor at Lime Grove: however, he promised to call the next day, and after a friendly leave-taking turned away with rapid steps to join his relations, whom he overtook at a short distance from the garden entrance.